


Down To Earth

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written for http://purpleshirtofsex.tumblr.com's prompt “Teacher/Student relationship!" for the first Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange. It ended up running away from me, became more of a character study, and has yet to be completed. It was extremely fun to write and I'm still working on the last part and thinking of possibly adding to this universe. This was not Beta'd or Brit-Picked; all mistakes are my own as is my complete lack of knowledge on the British educational system. </p>
<p>Title is from the Doctor Who Season 5 track by Murray Gold because I listened to these OST's obsessively while I wrote this and, ironically, the title that was tentative at first suddenly began to fit.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for http://purpleshirtofsex.tumblr.com's prompt “Teacher/Student relationship!" for the first Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange. It ended up running away from me, became more of a character study, and has yet to be completed. It was extremely fun to write and I'm still working on the last part and thinking of possibly adding to this universe. This was not Beta'd or Brit-Picked; all mistakes are my own as is my complete lack of knowledge on the British educational system. 
> 
> Title is from the Doctor Who Season 5 track by Murray Gold because I listened to these OST's obsessively while I wrote this and, ironically, the title that was tentative at first suddenly began to fit.

“Don’t forget to post your journal _before_ class starts on Monday!” John called out, barely heard over the sound of bags being zipped shut, books shoved to the side to be forgotten until the next class where they would all most likely scurry to get a hold of the material and, later, flood his e-mail with complaints and pleads through frantic text; “But Dr. Watson, I don’t understand Jane Eyre!” and you could never forget the twenty or so angry e-mails so cleverly themed “Existentialism is worthless!” (pardon the pun, of course). At only the fourth week of school, John had a lot to look forward to and, honestly, he really did look forward to it. Ten odd years of desert and sand, screaming nights and blood-loss mornings can really desensitize you from the woes of young, able-bodied university students.

It had been a career change, and if that wasn’t the understatement of the century. John had been a Captain, a vital component of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a battle hardened army doctor with a foul mouth, steady hands, and enough good cheer to fill even the darkest of rooms. Afghanistan had been home for years and John had grown to crave the adrenaline of the fight, the need of his patients. He knew it wasn’t exactly healthy, or even ideal, but he loved it all the same.

Then there was an ambush and that's when everything changed. It had been a whirlwind of delirium, dry heat, and had ended with two injured and eleven dead. The left side of his body was on fire and he could feel the blood being pumped from his body. “ _Gushing”_ , he remembers hysterically thinking. He had struggled to sit, to look for the other men in his company, to help, to do fucking something.

Loud, it’s one thing that had never really been discussed during the short meetings and briefs with soldiers and higher ranking officers. There were missions, talk of weaponry and strategy and everything in between but he can’t remember a single person telling him just how _loud_ it would be. At first it was white noise, a one-note shriek after the blast that slowly merged into screams, commands, and the sound of twisting metal ( _Harry used to always scrape the knife on our ceramic plates when she cut her food and it drove us mad at dinner when we used to eat dinner together, when we all used to talk, when we used to live in the same house, house, small, white, red door, Mum and Dad, homehomehome oh god oh god oh god_ ). He had never really felt fear until that day; that sickening clench in your gut that was strong enough to make you pray, hope that there was something, anything, up there in that big blue sky, someone who would take over for a change ( _Please, God, let me live_ ).

John didn’t remember much of those next couple of weeks, just blurs of colors and vocal inflections but no words, and pain, so much pain. When he stabilized and all the surgery that could be done had been done, he got the letter. They sent him a _letter_ , after all he had done. He remembers the honest-to-god fury that had coursed through his broken body; the heat that started in his chest and branched out to fill the rest of his veins until he started to shake. They used words like “service” and “bravery”, “apologizes” and “appreciate”, and the ugliest word John had ever seen, “invalidate”.

“in·val·i·date **:** to make invalid;  _especially_ **:** to weaken or destroy the cogency of”

For a long time after that, nothing changed. He suffered through physical therapy and stomached the pathetic visits with Harry. Anger became intertwined in every task he took part of, every conversation; it was a foothold, no matter how unhealthy. Where he had once been useful and called upon he was now injured, damaged, _pitied_. He would grit his teeth and bare it, force a smile during the psychiatric evaluations and talk of job possibilities, jobs he could perform because, suddenly, there was a limit to what he could do and that scared him most of all.

“Don’t worry, dear, everything will be back to normal soon.” Normality was a common theme during the daily pep talks, the endless amount of sessions, and, dear god, the _grief meetings_. He nodded and played along, ever the soldier.

Time, in the end, was all he needed. There had been no miraculous therapy session, no beautiful nurse that suddenly inspired hope; just the slow, soothing passing of time. He moved into a small flat in a secluded pocket of London—only going out for the bare necessities—and lived the best that he could on an army pension. It was blissfully quiet for a couple of months and John could feel bits of him that he thought he had lost, start to come back. He pushed through the nights, reading through most of them, and slept during the day. As his nightmares (terrors) became worse, he found that it was much easier to reassure himself with daylight streaming through the windows. His shoulder ached most days and his limp was growing increasingly worse but he was taking active steps to get back to being himself, being John instead of Captain John Watson, however much he missed the title and the man that went along with it. 

Then mail, as it’s known to do, started coming in regular intervals and bills began working their way to kitchen counters and spilled out onto the desk and onto his bedside table. When John caught himself using a therapy bill as a bookmark he decided enough was enough and like all men in a tight bind, he went on the internet.

It never ceased to amaze John how many people were surprised to find that before he had been a soldier he had had other interests outside of the military (truth be told, there hadn’t been many). It had been hell finding a university that allowed him to pursue a joint-honours degree, especially since his were in no way interrelated, but after affirming professors and advisors alike that he was dedicated to both sets of work and that, no, he wasn’t clinically insane, he finally set to study both medicine and literature.

Literature was certainly a subject not many had associated with John and few understood the appeal but there had always been something freeing about books that resonated with him. In a childhood full of lonely afternoons and disappointing days, he sought solace in the library.

**

John had been a chubby, sweet little boy and children, no matter the generation, are always cruel. The taunts were endless and to a seven year old it really was the end of the world. He had wandered into the library to get out of the rain when Carl and his friends spotted John taking off his raincoat.

“Oi, Watson! Shouldn’t you be out there playing in the mud? Isn’t that what pigs do?” They dissolved into cackles while John’s eyes filled. He kept his mouth shut whenever he was mocked and he hated himself for it but he usually couldn’t talk around the lump in his throat. What if his voice cracked? It would only make things worse so, no, John never spoke up.

He sat quietly at a table in the back and tried to ignore the fact that those four horrible boys were making their way towards him. Still laughing, they sat on the opposite end of the table, making rude comments loudly. A few girls sat at a table on the opposite side of the open room, giggling loudly. John wished he could disappear.

“Give that back!” John shouted, leaping to his feet as the boys suddenly took his bag. They held his backpack up high, laughing loudly as John jumped to reach it. “That’s mine, give it back!” He can still remember how hard he had tried to sound brave.

They pushed him down and began rummaging through his things, tearing out pages from his notebook, and going through his lunch.

“Look! A note, oh my god, a note from his _Mum_!” They pulled a folded piece of paper from his lunch bag, a flowery, light blue piece of his Mum’s stationary.

“John, have a great day at school! I love you very much! Love, Mummy!” Carl read the note aloud in a shrill voice, mocking. The boys broke into hysterics, ripping the paper in half and throwing it on the ground. “Jesus, John. You are such a loser!”

The bell rang, marking the start of the school day. The boys tossed his bag to the floor, getting their own to begin heading to class. They laughed as they went.

John blinked furiously, kneeling down to pick up the pens and coursework that had spilt from his bags. He stared hard at the blue bits of paper, his Mum’s note. He thought briefly of leaving them behind, throwing them away, but a sudden fear gripped his heart and he quickly gathered them up, careful not to bend them more than they already were.

He held them tightly in his fist, his bag slung over his shoulder, as he made his way to the front desk of the library.

“Oh! Good morning, dear.” Mrs. Turner grinned from behind the table, her purse still swinging from her shoulder. _If only she were here five minutes ago_ , John thought.

“Can I have some paste, please?” He asked politely, holding up the ripped pieces in his hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I don’t have any paste but I have some tape if that’ll do.” John’s eyes lit up and he nodded furiously, suddenly worried about getting to class on time.

Mrs. Turner sat him on her chair as the two of them began carefully taping the pieces back together with friendly conversation in between. John worked diligently, carefully reconstructing the note before mending it.

“That’s a nice note, John. How did it get ripped?” The librarian asked. John was silent, hanging his head and burrowing further within himself. Mrs. Turner, a white-haired woman of seventy six, can spot a trouble maker from across a room, and she can certainly tell the bullies from the bullied. She put a thin hand on John’s back, patting gently.

“It was very sweet of your Mum to write this, and on such pretty paper!” Mrs. Turner exclaimed, tracing a finger over the flowers that dotted the edges. John grinned, sitting up straight and cutting off a piece of tape.

“My Mum always has pretty paper! She loves flowers so I pick some for her and put ‘em in a cup by her bed.” John spoke quickly, taping up the last few tears. “Dad says that they aren’t the right kind of flowers but I know he likes ‘em too ‘cause Mum says they help her feel better and that makes Dad happy.”

Mrs. Turner frowned slightly, looking at the little boy in her chair. “She’s sick, your Mum?” John nodded slowly.

“Her blood isn’t right. Dad says it’s something ‘bout a “sell”, a “white sell”, I think.”

“White blood cell?” Mrs. Turner offered, her hand curling around John’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s it.” John held up his note, turning his head slightly, making sure he had taped it all together with none of the sticky-sides showing. He kept all of her notes in a drawer in his desk and he didn’t want them to get stuck together or tearing because of a rogue piece of tape. He put the note carefully in his backpack, carefully minding the edges.

“Thank you, I’m all done.” John smiled, making his down from the chair. “May I have a note for class?” He asked, staring at the clock worriedly.

“Of course you may, dear, but aren’t you going to get something?” John furrowed his small eyebrows, looking up at her. Mrs. Turner gasped loudly, clutching her hand to her chest in jest.

“Why, you can’t come to a library and leave without a book, my boy!” John laughed as Mrs. Turner took him by the shoulders and steered him in between the isles until she stopped abruptly.

“Ah, yes, here we are!” She picked a small book from the shelf, handing it to John. The little boy read the title and grinned.

“Giants aren’t friendly, Mrs. Turner.” He giggled, holding the book tight in his small hands. She smiled but shook her head. “How would you know that? Have you met a giant?”

John laughed loudly, Mrs. Turner taking his hand as they marched back to the front desk to check it out.

“The BFG is a wonderful story. You’ll love it, John, I’m sure of it.” She grinned, taking the book from him and writing his name in the paper slip just inside the front cover and writing a small note to excuse him for his tardiness.

“When you’re finished with it I want you to come here right away and tell me what you thought.” Mrs. Turner handed him the book and his note.

“I will, Mrs. Turner. Thank you!” He left in a hurry, his Mum’s note tucked carefully in his notebook and his new story gripped tightly in his hands. When he got to class, his teacher wasn’t pleased about his lateness but excepted Mrs. Turner’s note just the same. On his way to his seat, he ignored Carl’s snide remarks. He found that the book in his hands made him feel just a little bit stronger.

**

John quickly became insatiable, reading everything he could get his hands on. Mrs. Turner had been a guiding force but within a couple of years, he began giving recommendations to her. She had opened his eyes to worlds that he hadn’t known existed, characters that quickly became his best friends. Pretending that there were friends waiting for him at home on his bookshelf made school that much easier and his grades thanked him for it.

He studied hard and while he began falling in love with anatomy and biology, he never lost his luster for fiction. Books taught him what many others could not and he felt richer for the experience. It was fascinating and held his attention as much, if not more, than his medical courses.

During University, his Literature courses became a getaway of sorts. If he began feeling stressed he would hole himself in his room and devour page after page, flying through his analysis on the works of Shakespeare and Kipling, falling in love with the darker works of Orwell and Dostoevsky.

So there, in small dark flat, in his mid-thirties, John thought long and hard about the direction his life wanted to take. He had lived in the medical field, had lived the life of a doctor; “Maybe,” he thought, “I should give something else a go.” He steeled himself and pushed away visions of himself in a hospital, doing check-ups and taking vitals and, instead, a picture of a white-haired Mrs. Turner popped in his head. She had long since passed but John still thought about her and hoped that she knew what she had meant to a lonely little boy.

Straightening his back and ignoring the ache in his shoulder, John typed “Literature positions” into the search engine and began the long, arduous process of job hunting and feeling more hopeful than he had in ages. 


	2. First Impressions

During his first couple weeks at the university, John became fast friends with a casual fellow from the Forensics department. After having a polite, social-niceties exchange the two of them went out for a pint and what started as a customary drink quickly became a four hour conversation turned confessional.

Greg Lestrade was easy to talk to which had surprised John who was already so used to his own solitary little world. John talked about the army and his time in Afghanistan; he confessed to missing it at times, the rush, the adrenaline. Greg hadn’t interrupted or cringed, he simply listened which had been more than John had hoped for. As the night went on Greg began telling him about his brief time on the police force and the strain it had put on his relationship. He told John about the infidelity from both him and his wife which led to the ultimate end of his ten-year marriage. The two men talked until the pub closed and by the time they stepped on the sidewalk they both felt that much lighter. John bid him goodnight and they exchanged numbers and thanks. John smiled on his way at home; he had made a friend, he felt at ease and despite the ache in his shoulder and the pain in his leg, he felt happy.

As the term began looming, the two men stressed over their respective lesson plans and traded ideas and critiques. They worked long nights together, side-by-side in comfortable silences with papers, texts, and takeaways surrounding them. During one of these nights Greg leaned over to look at John’s future students. He laughed softly, pointing to the middle of the roster, his finger settling on _Holmes_.

“Good luck, mate.” Greg grinned and turned back to his work. John frowned, looking closer at the name: _Sherlock S. Holmes_.

“Do I want to know?” John asked, skeptically looking over the name as though it may give him answers. He was new to the university, not even technically a professor but he was qualified, certainly medically and that was enough to get him his interview. He had practiced day and night for that interview and the day of, in front of a chairwoman, he had charmed his way around questions, been well-spoken and, to his surprise, was offered the position. It was a tentative position but one that held the potential of promotions and that was more than enough for John and the bills sitting in his desk drawer.

What John didn’t need was a student that was going to test his boundaries, a trouble maker that would only make his life hell. Most of the students at the university were of a privileged background to say the least, and it wasn’t uncommon for teachers to be written up or even terminated due to an angry e-mail from a disgruntled parent—especially if the parent was in a powerful career which most were.

“Sherlock is somethin’ else. Bloody brilliant but an arrogant sod.” John looked at Greg pointedly, waiting for a further explanation. His friend rolled his eyes and set his papers down, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

“He was in one of my classes. Quiet at first but that changed pretty quickly. He knew all the right answers, yeah, but would correct other students, corrected _me_. He absolutely refused to work with others students, even made marks on my own assignments, writing ‘Wrong!’ under facts and whatnot.”

“The way he talks too is…strange. Cryptic. He can tell you your whole life story from the color of your tie.” John snorted, giving Greg his well-practiced and impressive “you’ve got to be kidding me” expression.

“I’m serious! He knew that Amanda and I split up because of a scuff on my shoe, said I hurried off. He’s a know-it-all but the most annoying part? The little prat is usually right.”

John slouched in his seat, turning back to his roster. He pursed his lips before leaning forward and putting a small star next to the student’s name, a warning.

Greg noticed the change in his friend’s behavior, cleared his throat and slapped his hand on John’s back.

“But nothing you can’t handle, eh, Captain Watson.” John rolled his eyes, self-doubt filling up inside him. His first term had gone relatively well, with a few speed bumps as was to be expected but this term, his second, already looked like it was going to either make or break him. He already felt under qualified and this prospective student and Greg’s recollections was doing nothing to pacify his nerves.  

By the time the first day of term had rolled around, John had fought down his nerves enough to step out of his flat and head to the university. He had arrived early, sipping his tea looking cool and calm just like he always did. John was anxious, more so than the previous term but he held himself composed because if teaching had taught him anything it was that students could damn well smell fear.

His students had filed in loudly, on time for the most part. John scanned through the young faces quickly as they sat in their seats. Some clustered with friends, others sat off to the side, awkward and lonely. He started the class with his usual banter, went over the course work that would be involved and asked general questions, trying to spark conversation and see where they stood literacy wise. Almost none were studying Literature, the course was more of an elective and the majority of students enrolled were there just for the credits.

He went through everything quickly, assigning a short reading before letting the class out early. John had always thought it cruel to make students sit through the whole time period on the first day. He remembers thinking it unethical and ridiculous and he refused to submit his class to it.

He took roll quickly, the sounds of the students packing up drowning him out. They left as they were called and John struggled to match a face and a name to each student before they turned and fled.

He paused briefly in the middle of the page where a small star reminded him that he had someone to look out for.

“Sherlock Holmes?” John looked up quickly, scanning fervently, curious to see the young man who everyone seemed to have such ill encounters with.

A thin hand rose in the air and John’s focus closed in on the tall, pale figure. Sherlock was already standing with his bag over his shoulder. He was dressed in all black, a stark contrast with his pale complexion, a gray scarf looped around a long neck. John was drawn immediately to slanted, bright eyes that met his for a brief moment. There was an intensity in his eyes that was alarming and familiar, though John couldn’t pinpoint the familiarity.

 _Exotic_ , John thought, too preoccupied with his view to worry about it being inappropriate. Sherlock’s black hair was short but wild, tufts of hair curling around the frame of his face, a curl rested on his high cheekbone, accentuating the feature, and at that moment John realized he was desperately staring.

He looked down at his list quickly, steeling himself and finishing the names quickly. He was horrified with himself and could already feel his ears heating. The room was empty in moments and John sat heavily in his chair.

Sherlock hadn’t been what he had been expecting, not at all. John had expected a gangly-looking student with a loud mouth and glasses, that was what his mental picture had been for weeks and it was suddenly shattered to take form of a tall, slim young man with fierce eyes and devastating features.  

“Jesus,” John ran his hand over his face, laughing incredulously to himself. He rubbed at his leg, leaning back into his chair and smiling despite himself. A part of him wanted to text Greg but what would he say?

“I’m fucked?” John said aloud because it was the truest thing he could think of. He shook his head at himself, grin falling from his face. Guilt and something sickening pulled at his chest as he stood and gathered his things, feeling disgusted with himself.

There was no arguing with himself, Sherlock was breathtaking to look at, devilishly good looking with a cool air of indifference; John was surprised that no one had bothered to sit next to him because John had also noticed the lack of people surrounding the young man.

John remembered his conversation with Greg and wondered if all that he had heard was actually true. It was hard to imagine such harsh words coming from that soft face because while there were sharp angles, high cheekbones, and height, Sherlock looked young, younger than the other students.

John paused, staring at the information sheets he made the students fill out at the beginning of class. They were general questions; name, age, birthday, what their interests were, favourite books, and so on. It was a nice way to get to know the class and to get them more involved in the work.

Defeated, John sat back down in his chair, rummaging through them before finding Sherlock’s. His hand writing was elegant, with thin loops and, John noted happily, exemplary grammar and punctuation.

He read quickly, happy despite himself, to see that Sherlock was 20 years old and not a twelve year old genius that had excelled to university standards already. John laughed as he read the “favourite hobbies”; Sherlock had crossed the question out wrote, “I don’t have hobbies; I have interests.” Though he had yet to hear Sherlock speak, he could hear the sneer in his tone.

His interests were strange but John had assumed as such; experimentations of any and all things, boxing, cryptology, and deduction. John grinned, Sherlock had made a small key using the amount of underlines he gave each hobby in “Order of Importance”, 1 being most important and 4 being the least important. Experimentation had been the most important.

John read through the list, his favourite books, favourite television shows and smiled at the additional comments Sherlock made.

He set the form down when he was finished, grinning and put it at the top with the others’ students papers. John was curious to get to know that man that seemed so distant, so smart and yet very lonely. He would find out soon enough if what Greg had said about Sherlock was true but one thing was absolutely certain.

Sherlock was going to give him hell.  

**   

A hand slammed on his desk just as John turned to put his books in his bag. He frowned, looking up to see a frustrated Sherlock-hardly anything out of the ordinary.

Over the past three weeks, John had learned more about Sherlock from his body language than anything else. He was silent during class until John asked him pointed questions to which he always answered quickly and correctly with none of the arrogance that he had heard about.

When the other students spoke though, Sherlock may as well have been shouting. He sat low in his seat, chin tucked into his chest practically inside his scarf, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He rolled his eyes when girls tried to explain Shakespeare’s sonnets and he scoffed when guys gave their interpretations on Animal Farm. Sherlock was expressive with or without speaking.

John also began to notice how he was viewed by his peers. Sherlock sat on his own, towards the left side of the class with at least one seat separating him from the other students. Even the meek, seemingly sweet students kept their distance. It would’ve been easy to pity Sherlock but it was obvious that he didn’t want to sit near them just as much as they didn’t want to sit near him. Sherlock was quite clearly comfortable with being alone and John found that he admired that.

But John quickly got an earful of Sherlock Holmes and everyone’s warnings about the boy began to make sense.  

“Ah, hello, Mr. Holmes.” John smiled, quick to forget the inappropriate...bias, no matter how small, he had towards Sherlock. The greeting went ignored as the young man physically seethed, the tension that radiated through his thin body, pulsing and palpable. His breathing was shallow and his eyes wild.  John’s brow furrowed as he took in the obvious distress from the student.

“May I help you?” John prompted when he was met with extended silence. He glanced at the stapled sheets of paper that Sherlock had slammed on the table, his grade marked in red peeked out from Holmes’ little finger.

“Why was I given this mark?” His voice was flat, a deep, dark tone that coupled with narrowed eyes. John sighed, taking the paper from the student’s hand and looking it over. He remembered reading it, it had been impressive if not a little too lengthy, Sherlock having gone far over the required word limit but really, John had been happy that anyone had actually read the book he had assigned without reaching for SparkNotes.

“Sherlock, this was a wonderful paper, it really was. You should be pleased; you received a better grade than most of your peers.” The words did nothing to pacify the raging man in front of him. Sherlock leaned forward and pointed an accusatory finger at the papers.

“Then _why_ didn’t I receive the highest possible mark then?” John raised an eyebrow at the forthright response. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. He didn’t want this to be their first proper conversation but Sherlock’s tone was quickly getting to John; it was condescending and too forward. He could feel the Captain in him begin to rouse up, the place where he most valued authority and respect which, clearly, Sherlock did not.

“This assignment is far beyond the quality that the other students turned in, I’m sure of it. Why won’t you just change the bloody grade?” Sherlock spit out each word, his whole body rigid.  

“Because, Sherlock,” John’s voice clipped, growing irritated. He handed the sheets of paper back to the boy. “This was a _group_ assignment. You’re lucky I didn’t give you any less than what you received.” Sherlock took the papers back, cradling them to his chest like a shield, his bright eyes narrowing further and John noted how his impression of them were quickly changing, they were threatening now instead of beautiful.

“It’s just an essay on Dostoevsky; there was no point for a ‘group’ assignment. This,” He held out his essay, “This is brilliant! Much better than what you usually get from these illogical children you lot call ‘students’.”

“Yes, Sherlock, you mentioned that but, in the end, you didn’t follow directions. The point of the assignment was to discuss the readings, your individual views on Existentialism, to _interact_ and work together to create a thorough analysis on any of the prompts I gave you.” John turned, gathering his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “You should still be incredibly proud. Your paper was brilliant.”

“I demand that you change my grade.” Sherlock may as well have stomped his feet. John snorted, beginning to lose his patience.

“You _demand_ it,” John snorted, “Sherlock, the grade is final. You received the grade you deserved. It was a brilliant paper. It just wasn’t exactly what I was looking for.” John stepped out from behind his desk, cane in hand, and began making his way out of the classroom. Sherlock followed close behind him, his mouth set in an angry curve.

“Look at you, so quick to play superiority, to become ‘in charge’. But you’ve lost that haven’t you.” Sherlock was at his side, sneering and beginning to do what John had been fearing-disappointing him.

“You spent time in Afghanistan judging by the limp and the fact that you were shot in the left shoulder. The way you hold yourself says military and the mug on your desk says RAMC as does the tattoo on your right upper arm. You can see the edges of it when you wear short sleeves, by the way. So army doctor then, but wait, what’s this? Literature temping?” He was smiling now, circling John as he walked, looking him up and down.

“I see a discharge due to disability. Too damaged to do your job then? You reverted back to what was safe, what was comfortable. Do you hate it, this dull, repetitive civilian life? Is the intermittent tremor in your left hand a constant reminder of what you’re missing over there, the thrill of the chase?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing further. 

“You want to know what I see? I see a disabled army doctor that’s given up and has been reduced to a mundane existence because he’s too much of a coward to try again.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” John stopped walked and turned towards Sherlock, losing his last thread of understanding and the small amount of respect that he had had for this man. “I see a sad, lonely, _angry_ young man that looks upon the faults of others to keep his eyes off himself. And I see a _boy_ who thinks he is much more impressive than he really is.”

Something quick and dark flashed across Sherlock’s face but was gone before John could pinpoint it. He stood to his full height and narrowed his eyes, looking John over and opening his mouth before John cut in.

“No, I’m not listening to this anymore. You can study me and ‘deduce’ me for as long as you want but you will never understand who I am and why I’ve made the choices I’ve made and done the things I’ve done. You can sit on your pedestal and look down on others but don’t expect anybody to be there when you fall from it because one day you will, Sherlock.” John took a few steps forward, leaving Sherlock standing still in the corridor.

“You know what,” John stopped and turned, “I hope that you find what you need, what makes you happy because this, this is no way to live. Why don’t you try talking _to_ people for a change instead of _at_ them.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped briefly before he looked at John once more, all the heat gone from his glare. He looked as if he were going to say something but he slowly turned and walked in the opposite direction alone.


	3. Sherlock S. Holmes

His name was, in absolutely everyway, a perfect representation of him. A unique name, by all means, but not hard in pronunciation, relatively short and to the point. He had the sort of name where his surname was just as important as the first; so much so that people rarely called him “Sherlock”, instead he was referred to as a whole; “Sherlock Holmes”.

It was one of the few things that he actually thanked his parents for, not verbally, of course. He was the namesake of a distant uncle; a prominent but solitary man that was brilliant as he was mad. As Sherlock grew up and into himself the name began to fit him even more than it had its predecessor.

Sherlock had lived a sheltered childhood on a very large, very secluded estate in the country, just far enough to be considered “safe”. His parents lived separate lives, when one was away for months at a time, the other would stay despite the mass amount of nanny’s and cooks, the butlers and maids, all of which watched Sherlock and Mycroft, though the elder didn’t need much looking after. It bothered Sherlock that the respective parent, though being home, was rarely seen. When he was young he would stalk the premises, peeking through doors and looking under shrubs.

“What are you doing, dear?” A fat, old maid asked, a basket of clean laundry resting on her hip. Sherlock glared with all the petulance a four year old could muster which was, surprisingly, a lot.

“I’m looking for Mummy.” He crossed his arms in defiance already knowing what the woman would say and, just as he thought, she rolled her eyes and tightened her hold on the basket while reaching out for him with her free arm.

“Your mother is _busy_ and can’t be disrupted, dear, you know that. Why don’t you come inside and we’ll go and find Mycroft.” Sherlock shook his head and ran across the lawn and through the trees that surrounded the property, frustrated and lonely.

When he was five, he asked Mycroft if they were spies.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock.” His older brother had said and that, Sherlock thought, wasn’t exactly a _no_. They were spies, he decided, and that small, measly, individual choice had also been his first rebellion, his first step of distinction between himself and his family. It would also be the last time, for a very long time, that Sherlock asked about anything. If he would get condescending answers, he’d go find the answers for himself and skip the superiority. He would conduct his own research instead, just like the scientists that he read about in Mycroft’s texts.

He watched telly a few times a week, not that he really cared for it, but there were programs about families and Sherlock watched those with an attention he rarely gave anything else, the only “population sample” he could find that was suitable. The actors and actresses weren’t funny to him and he didn’t understand half of the jokes that the studio audience seem to think were so hysterical but he watched the familial interactions, their eye movements and voice tone, making small notes in a notebook he had nicked from his parents’ bedroom.

They hugged a lot, they did in those shows, and the act made Sherlock’s body get hot and nervous but the actors didn’t seem to mind it. He was usually hugged and held if absolute necessary, more often to get him into the bath which was a struggle all in itself. Sherlock couldn’t remember _giving_ a hug, only being on the receiving end and feeling anxious and suffocated.   

He tried it after one of the shows. He marched up to Mycroft’s room where he was doing coursework. Sherlock cleared his throat and waited patiently, bouncing on his toes.

“Stand up.” He ordered when Mycroft turned to look at him. His brother rolled his eyes but stood anyway, certainly not expecting the onslaught that was suddenly brought his way.

Sherlock barreled forward, wrapping his arms tight around Mycroft’s soft middle, nearly knocking the older Holmes to the floor.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Mycroft asked softly as his heart rate slowed, resting his hands on Sherlock’s skinny shoulders.

“I’m doing a study on the effects of human embrace and whether there are physical changes in the perpetrator or victim’s mood.” Sherlock said into the fabric of Mycroft’s blue Polo, careful to choose his terms carefully. “It seems that the act does create some changes because your voice has changed. It’s quiet and nice now where it’s usually clipped and sharp.”

Mycroft grinned, “An experiment; I’m impressed, Sherlock.” The younger boy’s head shot up, looking up at his brother with an honest expression of surprise.

“You are?” Mycroft nodded, disentangling himself from the small boy.

“I am. You’ve been reading my books, even though I told you to stay out of my bedroom, might I add.” Sherlock tried to hide his smile. “But it was a very thoroughly researched and practiced attempt, childish but thorough.”

Sherlock scowled, the pride that had been filling him quickly vaporizing. “It was conclusive!”

“You can’t have a successful and conclusive study by experimenting with _one_ subject; besides an experiment like this will always be inconclusive.” Sherlock took a step back, shaking his head furiously.

“It will not! What about the genes,” “ _Genetics_ ” Mycroft corrected, “The _genetics_. You responded by being nice, so theoretically so would I. So would Father…and Mummy.”

“Genetics have nothing to do with responses to hugging. I may have thought that it was acceptable but that does not necessarily mean that you or Mummy or Father would respond the same way. It’s subjective, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared at the floor, his mouth a firm, straight line. He thought over his experiment, the research and was furious to think that Mycroft’s explanation may be correct. Sherlock blinked quickly, his experiment had been a complete waste.    

“You’re upset.” Mycroft frowned, taking in the sudden change in behavior. He attempted to step towards his little brother but Sherlock jumped back before he could reach him. 

“I am not!” Sherlock shouted, turning and storming out of the bedroom. He ran quickly to his own room, locked the door, and propped a chair under the doorknob for good measure. The notebook that he had written his hypothesis laid on his desk, still open and waiting for a conclusion.

 Sherlock, still stomping, made his way to the desk, climbing onto the chair that was much too tall, and reached for his pen.

“ _Subject was responsive but the effect did not sustain_.” He scribbled furiously. “ _Response may be subjective._ ” He re-read his words over and over before making an additional note on the bottom.

“ _Do not attempt on Mummy_.”

**

In time, Sherlock learned through technique and practice how to quell his emotions until they were nearly nonexistent. He was a neurotic little boy that was always frustrated and anxious, prone to panic attacks which, coincidentally, made him even more nervous. Meltdowns were common in the Holmes’ estate and during these episodes he was taken to his room to “sort through it”.

Mycroft left for Uni when Sherlock was 10. Despite himself and how hard he tried to ignore it, he was devastated. However annoying and infuriating his older brother was he was someone to talk to, someone whose mind worked similar to his.

Mycroft taught him things that Sherlock’s tutors said were too “advanced” for him. He let Sherlock keep all of his old texts and every night, would teach him something from each subject. He taught Sherlock about all types of codes, he taught him how to pick locks (though he quickly regretted that one), he showed him his favourite speeches and how orators could manipulate words through rhetoric and persuasion, he taught Sherlock how to defend himself. He talked _to_ Sherlock instead of at him, like most people did.

Sherlock missed him terribly.

He wrote to him every week and waited for the mail to come obsessively. At first, the letters were long and detailed; what the students were like, what classes he was taking and some of his notes when a particular subject had passed. Mycroft was learning how to communicate with others his own age and, surprisingly, was excelling at it. Growing up in seclusion was not the most ideal place to learn social cues but he seemed to be taking to “Uni-Life” as he so termed it.

Sherlock kept him up on the experiments he had been conducting and how Mummy and Daddy were both usually gone now instead of one staying behind. He wrote Mycroft about one of his new tutors who Sherlock found interesting (“ _He’s been to Egypt and studied the mummification process, Mycroft!_ ”) and he was getting exceptionally grades. But as the year went on, the time between letters grew longer and longer until there were none at all. Sherlock kept writing his elusive brother, berating him through lines of furious freehand. He was angry and hurt but above all, embarrassed. He handed his letters to maids, his eyes to the floor and his face flushed. He knew he was going to get nothing back but if he kept at it.

After weeks of no response he decided that he no longer cared; he didn’t care that Mycroft wasn’t writing to him. Sherlock stopped sending the letters. 

With Mycroft gone, Sherlock threw himself into his violin, spending hours practicing in his room while the rest of his coursework went ignored or was completed with very little effort, but this did nothing to pacify what was going on inside his small, overexerted body.

Sherlock began getting increasingly frustrated, more anxious and the panic attacks became consistent. He couldn’t focus and his brain was a constant buzz of information with no sorting and no filters. Sherlock lashed out more often, frightening a few of the housekeepers and which prompted a few of them to approach his parents.

He fought and screamed when they took him to be evaluated and refused to speak once he was there. Sherlock crossed his arms and sat in the large, overstuffed chair as the adults in the room talked around him. They threw around terms and words that Sherlock had only every heard on the telly and in a few of Mycroft’s books; “psychopathic”, “Asperger’s”, “Antisocial Personality Disorder”.

Mother eventually came to one of the sessions and sat close to Sherlock. He didn’t dare try to talk with her but he felt something lift a little in his chest when she sat beside him in the round office.

Her voice was soft but authoritative and Sherlock watched as the psychiatrist discussed treatment options; medication, therapy, more tests, and even talked about institutions. Sherlock dropped his gaze, a prickly feeling began running up and down his arms and chest and he drew into himself to stop the irritating and frightening sensation.

A sudden arm wrapped itself around his shoulders. Sherlock felt himself being pulled into his mother’s side and instead of feeling suffocated and restricted, he felt safe if not a bit surprised.

“That’s quite enough.” Mrs. Holmes suddenly interrupted. “I am going to say this once and I shall not repeat myself.” She paused, her eyes narrowed at the doctor in the opposite seat.

“My son is neither psychopathic nor suffering from any of the ailments that you have mentioned. Sherlock has an intellect far above most his age and this is why he appears different to simple-minded men like yourself. He is not going to be subjected to any sort of treatment and that is not up for debate. I require no response from you and if you so much as speak to my son again, I will have your license revoked and your practice terminated.” Mrs. Holmes stood and adjusted her blouse. “Needless to say, we will not be back. Come, Sherlock.” She called, turning on her heel and making her way out of the office.

Sherlock jumped up to follow her, grinning at the doctor as he crossed the office. They walked in silence, Mrs. Holmes’ stilettos creating a rhythmic clicking on the marble floor. She turned in a secluded hallway that led to what looked like a separate office. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, worried that perhaps she wanted him to be evaluated again, but continued following. She stopped abruptly, Sherlock bumping into her hip before she knelt down, her hands resting on his shoulders.  

“Sherlock, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.” She was silent a moment before she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the thin boy. “Do you understand?”

Sherlock froze as his mother embraced him, a confusing amount of emotions running through him at once. He tentatively encircled his own arms around them, his limbs feeling rubbery, like they hadn’t been used in a long time.

“Yes, I understand.” She smelled like the potpourri that was in her bedroom, the one that reminded Sherlock of dried leaves and August, she smelled of the rain and of home. He rested his head against her shoulder and his mind became blissfully blank. The embrace wasn’t long but more was said in those few moments than had ever been said between the two of them and Sherlock, though he didn’t understand at the time, can still remembering thinking “this is important, remember this”.

Mrs. Violet Almira Holmes died six months, three days, and six hours later.

The funeral was on a bright July day, one of London’s few rainless days. It had been a beautiful afternoon; the sun had been out and the sky had been cloudless, a bright blue. Sherlock thought this highly inappropriate and it was just one more thing among the list of many that had been wrong that day.

Mycroft had come home as soon as he heard of Mummy’s illness. His father had called him weeks before her death to inquire about what was to be done with his little brother; with Father gone and Mummy ill, Sherlock was left by himself. His father in particular, despite his consistent absence, scoffed in the face of maids and housekeepers who offered to watch the strange twelve year old; he thought it was somehow demeaning his family.

Mycroft had come at once, worried, and he fretted and fluttered about from the moment he arrived. He noted the change in Sherlock, the energetic little boy that was usually so eager for his older brother’s attention was now a sullen, serious young man.

“I’m sorry I never wrote back.” Mycroft apologized suddenly one afternoon.

“Really, Mycroft, there are much more pressing matters at hand.” The elder Holmes realized just how much he had missed in the past year and a half and he resented himself for it.

He fussed over his little brother, attempting to take the place of both Mother and Father, making sure Sherlock was studying and being fed. The two of them bickered and fought; the youngest shouted and made himself scarce, disgusted by Mycroft’s sudden interest in his well-being.

Mycroft kept at it, the fluttering and scolding, because it was much better than the quiet, ever-looming future that held a mother-less life and traveling father. He struggled with the idea of University and leaving Sherlock alone because, this time, he would really be on his own.

Their mother’s death had been quiet and peaceful with no pain. The maids found her in the morning; she had passed in her sleep. Arrangements were immediately made, Mycroft throwing himself into the plans, Sherlock called to let his father know. The telephone call had been brief, mostly one-sided conversation that had lasted 1 minute and 6 seconds.

The funeral was respectful and small with only a few aunts and uncles, Mycroft, Sherlock, and a handful of the housekeepers. Their father said that he couldn’t make it, Sherlock said he didn’t care and Mycroft, though he didn’t say it, agreed.

It was a short standard service, a few Biblical references and readings for a deceased, nonreligious woman. She was lowered into the ground and that was that.

Mycroft eventually left to return to university with not much said between the two brothers. Sherlock was left at the estate and left to himself most afternoons. He spent the next few years, reading, perfecting his observational skills, scaring the cooks half to death with experiments in the fridge, and ignoring everything else that didn’t comply to his views and what he held important.

He disregarded most of his tutors as imbeciles who mainly stayed for the pay and the future recognition _(“I taught Sherlock Holmes, yes,_ the _Sherlock Holmes.”_ ). He knew he was brilliant with a genius level IQ and he used it to his advantage. He made small ventures into the city, correctly deducing the lives of total strangers and getting himself beaten for it a few times. It was always worth it, though, the knowledge that he was _right_ was invaluable. He quieted the buzzing in his head, the constant boredom, with the study of human action, behavior, and perception.

It was no surprise that Sherlock passed his A-Levels with flying colors. He found the coursework tedious and mind-numbingly simple, no matter how many of the teachers and lecturers claimed that they were _advanced_ courses. He chose a practical university in London much to the dismay of many of his teachers who begged him to go to one of the more prestigious schools. Sherlock didn’t feel the need to flaunt his academic ability; a university education was just an expensive piece of paper.

What Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for, though, was finding out just how different he was from the other students. He had spent his childhood in isolation, had spent long hours reading things that he probably shouldn’t have been reading, he didn’t _look_ , he _focused_ , and he certainly had no desire to chase after girls (or boys, for that matter) or any other of the tedious activities that so interested his peers.

Fellow students quickly thought him odd which Sherlock had anticipated; what he hadn’t anticipated was how much they would go out of their way to make sure _he_ knew. Girls called him “freaky looking” and “ugly” while the boys just stuck with “queer”. His dorm mates locked him out frequently and purposely, stealing his keys and leaving him to wander until morning. (“ _It’s a laugh, Sherlock, no harm done, right mate_.”) Sherlock quickly adapted and fought fire with fire. He pointed out embarrassing secrets, infidelities, anything he could observe from gawky, lust driven creatures that society called “young adults”.

He made an effort to become someone they would avoid, someone they would warn people about. The professors both loathed and loved him; he was hell in the classroom but his work was extraordinary. Sherlock had quickly developed a reputation and he, among all, kept it going.

He was nearly done with his degree, less than a year left when his advisor pointed out that he still needed to complete a few electives. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and began searching for a few that would take the least effort and where, with luck, he could get a good laugh.

On the bottom of the list was a general Literature course, focused on the writing styles and themes of the “classics”. Sherlock shrugged and selected it.

How hard could it be?


End file.
